


A Long-Awaited Night

by BAFan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Hidden Relationship, M/M, Somewhat Explicit First Time Sex, but not too explicit, lovely smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8549506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BAFan/pseuds/BAFan
Summary: (Holmes closed his eyes. "I...I want this, John.  I want you.")
(Watson leaned in and kissed him. "Then you have me, Sherlock.")
- from Ch. 31 of "Dreams And Visions" by acme146





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acme146](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acme146/gifts).



> In the above-referenced chapter of her wonderful dreamsharing fic, the author invited her readers to expand on the "fade to black" scenes for both timeline couples. I decided to try my hand with the Victorian Holmes and Watson.
> 
> I cannot thank acme146 enough for her generosity in not only allowing me to post this expansion on her "fade to black" scene but for her kindness in looking this over for continuity errors and for her encouraging words, as well as helping me navigate the minefield of getting this posted on AO3.
> 
> Oh, and we can all thank her for suggesting the title, 'cause, trust me, I absolutely suck at titles.

**< ><><><><><><><>**

_" . . . I believe we are safe here, and I am more than willing to be with you, though I confess I am nearly ignorant of the proper procedure."_

_"I know the theory," Holmes interrupted. Watson raised his eyebrows, and Holmes blushed. "I was . . . researching."_

_"You'll have to show me, then," Watson smiled. "Dear heart, if we try and it does not work, then it does not work. But it is worth a try, so why not? We will learn together."_

_Holmes closed his eyes. "I...I want this, John. I want you."_

_Watson leaned in and kissed him. "Then you have me, Sherlock."_

(-from Chapter 31, "Wedded Eyes," of _Dreams And Visions_ by acme146)

**< ><><><><>**

The sound of his heartbeat thrummed in Watson's ears, almost drowning out the soft _click_ of the bedroom door closing behind him. Holmes stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face him. It took only a couple of steps for Watson to reach him and feel his arms returning his tight embrace, feel his chest expand and then the breath of a sigh against his head in the moment before warm lips touched his temple.

"John," Holmes murmured. 

Watson smiled and savoured the feeling of his husband's body against his for a bit longer before gently pulling back only far enough to raise his head and angle it invitingly. "Kiss me, Sherlock."

Holmes cupped Watson's face in his hands, lowering his head until their lips met in a soft, almost chaste, kiss. Only for a second, then the kiss grew firmer, their lips clinging for several moments before parting only to return again and again. Watson had thought their kiss in the garden could not be surpassed, since they had let it linger as they'd never dared to do in London. He was now learning how wrong he'd been. He thought he could die happy, finally knowing how that plump lower lip felt between his, thrilling at the hesitant slide of his husband's tongue on his, slightly sweet from the honey he'd eaten for supper. Watson slid one hand upward until he was toying with the short hair at Holmes's nape.

Holmes shivered and drew back, pressing one more kiss on Watson's mouth. "Why don't we become more comfortable?" he suggested, plucking at the other man's jacket.

"Excellent idea," Watson agreed. "But let me do the honours, please." He stalled the upward movement of Holmes's long hands as they reached for his own jacket, gathering them into his own and pressing a kiss on the backs. They were elegant still despite scratches and a few faint spots, unlike his own square, capable hands with their more liberal sprinkling of both freckles and liver spots.

"Only if I may reciprocate," Holmes smiled. "But first, shall we get these out of the way?" Kneeling down, he untied Watson's shoes and pulled them off before taking off his own. Then solemnly, almost with ceremony, they began removing each other's clothing. Once the final articles of attire had been discarded, they quickly slid between the sheets of Holmes's bed, it being the closer one. 

"So many times I wished to be with you like this, John," Holmes murmured. "To touch you like this, freely, without fear of discovery." With one hand, he stroked across his collarbone, down his sternum, and beneath the sheet covering them both. He splayed his hand across Watson's ribs, fingers caressing in tiny circles, pressing and releasing. "Beautiful."

Watson snorted. It wasn't that he was ashamed of his body. No. His muscles were still admirably firm, considering his age, and although he'd inevitably put on a few pounds since their retirement his waistline, though undeniably thicker than before, was still respectably trim with only a slight softening. Granted, there were grey hairs aplenty now where before there had been only sandy-brown, but they were very light in colour and could be taken for blond in the right light. Still, that was a long way from being beautiful! Holmes, on the other hand, was a marvel of sculpted planes and angles and muscles that were as taut as the day they'd met. Well, as far as he could determine from the brief glance the fading twilight had afforded him before the bedclothes swallowed them both up. 

He shook his head, gently urging Holmes over onto his back and leaning up on one elbow to run his eyes over his husband's face. "You are the beautiful one, Sherlock." Hesitantly, he reached out. The sheet covered all his torso but his shoulders and collarbones, and he rested his hand on one shoulder, caressing it. He slid the sheet down a couple of inches, revealing the upper part of his pectorals, then glanced at Holmes to gauge his reaction. However eager Holmes was to try physical intimacy, the fact remained that even this little bit was far outside their normal experience and he wanted to be sure Holmes was all right with this.

His husband's response was to pull the sheet down even further, uncovering them both to the waist. Watson swallowed, hard. He wasn't quite sure why the sight of Holmes's bare chest was causing such a rush of sensation through him this time. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen it before, though admittedly it was usually while he was treating an injury. For some reason, however, tonight his breath caught in his suddenly tight throat at the sight of that slender torso, its lean musculature not yet softened by age and its thin dusting of hair showing only a light scattering of grey amongst the dark. Impulsively, he leaned forward and ran his tongue lightly over one pale-pink nipple, drawing it into his mouth and flicking his tongue over the soft tip. A sharp gasp from Holmes had him drawing back, somewhat shocked and dismayed at his action. It was something he had enjoyed doing with Mary, and she had always seemed to appreciate it, but to employ that practice with Holmes - what had he been thinking? His husband was no woman!

"My dear Sherlock, forgive me," he began, flustered. "I don't know what possessed me to do that - "

Holmes interrupted him. "Do it again, John. Please." His voice was low, a little raspy even, and when Watson looked at him, he saw a telltale flush rising on those astounding cheekbones. He blinked and opened his mouth to say something, then closed his mouth and blinked some more. Holmes _wanted_ him to do this? 

His husband's lambent eyes met his steadily. "Please, John." 

Watson gathered his thoughts. "Of course, dear heart." Tentatively he leaned forward again and kissed the other nipple before softly licking it. Holmes hissed in a breath and arched into the caress. He brought his hands up to gently hold Watson's head in place against him. "Yes. Harder, John. Please."

Shifting downward slightly so that the angle was more comfortable, Watson complied, earning a sound that was almost a groan from Holmes. For several minutes he alternated his attentions between the two now very flushed and quite hard nipples, until Holmes gently pulled his head away. "Too sensitive now," he rasped. He cleared his throat but was still breathing more quickly than usual; the flush on his face had begun to work down his neck. 

"I must confess to a lack in my education," Watson murmured. "I was not aware that men could respond like that to nipple stimulation."

Holmes huffed out a small laugh. "Nor was I, until now."

"I do not believe my own are nearly that sensitive," Watson mused, staring in fascination at the pebbled skin, the tiny, perfect bud of the tip. The strength of Holmes's response to his touch had both amazed and aroused him. His prick had begun to stir with their kiss and he now felt it filling even more, which was reassuring. He had honestly been afraid that his age would be a barrier to achieving full tumescence.

Holmes gave him a slow, almost devilish smile. "I should like to test that, if I may." He glanced up, his gaze bright and intense as he brushed his thumbs over Watson's nipples, once, lightly . . . then again and again, each sweep slightly firmer than the one before it. 

Watson sucked in a sharp breath; how had he never known how receptive his body was to this particular touch? Mary had touched him there - hadn't she? He couldn't remember, it was too many years ago, but surely he would have remembered this . . . A thrill shot through him as his husband softly pinched his nipples and then tugged at them gently. A soft sound left his throat and his hands tightened on Holmes's shoulders. His prick gave another twitch as it continued to swell.

Holmes laughed quietly. "I think we've proven your belief to be mistaken."

"I'd say so, yes," Watson agreed breathlessly. He gave a small laugh, which hung in the air a moment and then trailed away leaving silence in its wake. He couldn't honestly say he was completely comfortable right now. After all, he wasn't accustomed to being naked in bed with someone, even if it was his beloved Holmes. That had certainly not been his habit with Mary; they had always worn nightclothes, though admittedly he'd usually pushed Mary's gown off her shoulders in order to gain better access to her bosom. But being a modest person, she had always pulled it around herself again after their lovemaking ended. 

He shook his head impatiently, irritated with himself. Long years had passed since Mary's death and, if truth be told, he could barely recall her face now without looking at their wedding portrait. Why was she suddenly in his thoughts, and now of all times, when his attention should only be on Holmes? He forced his thoughts away from his long-dead wife and focused on the man in front of him.

Holmes. His Sherlock. His husband, in his heart if not in law. His other half, who was looking at him with a questioning gaze. "John? Is this all right? You have not changed your mind?" Then almost immediately he said, "No, that's not it."

John smiled, leaning over to give a quick kiss of reassurance. "Of course it isn't, love. I was merely experiencing a momentary awkwardness. You must admit, this is not our usual . . . custom."

Holmes gave him a little smile. "True, although I have every expectation of it becoming so." Then he grew serious. "You have been thinking of Mary."

Watson glanced away guiltily. Holmes shook his head and turned on his side to face him, propped up on his elbow. "No, John, you should feel no guilt over that. It is only natural that you would be remembering her at this time. After all, your last intimate encounter was with Mary, was it not?"

Watson met his eyes steadily. "You know it was." 

Holmes had told him once, in the beginning when the change in their relationship was still new, that he would take no issue if Watson were to "seek relief" elsewhere. "You mean with a prostitute?" Watson had demanded incredulously. "Indeed," Holmes had calmly replied, though he studiously avoided Watson's eyes, busying himself with packing tobacco into his pipe. "I am aware that you are a man of passion and there are certain establishments which are perfectly discreet and safe for that purpose. I am sure Mycroft knows some names - " Watson had cut him off with a hard kiss and a "Don't be bloody ridiculous!" and the subject was never broached again.

Holmes nodded slightly in acknowledgment, doubtless recalling the same memory. "I do know that, yes." He then returned to the subject at hand. "You have not been physically intimate with another person since Mary's death. Why, then, are you surprised that attempting it now, with me, brings back memories? No, it was to be expected." He paused, then said, "That awkwardness you mentioned . . . it's because you are not sure of how to proceed, with us?" 

Watson could only hope the blush he could feel rising in his face wasn't visible to the other man, though he had no doubt that Holmes knew of it anyway. "I must admit to that, yes. I believe I already said something to that effect, earlier in the garden."

"Then I suppose I must supply the deficiency." And with that, Holmes kissed him. One hand moved upward, sliding up his chest, over his shoulder and along his neck and jaw until it cradled the back of his head, increasing the pressure of their mouths. A moment later Watson found himself on his back with Holmes leaning over him and kissing him again, this time with lips slightly parted. He obligingly opened his own, feeling a thrill when their tongues met and began a slow dance of touch, stroke and withdrawal, lips clinging and retreating before pressing together again.

Holmes shifted, moving closer, and Watson caught his breath as their bodies fully touched. For the first time he felt the weight of his husband lying in his arms, the heat of his skin where it pressed against his chest. It felt unbelievably good and right. Reflexively, his arms came around Holmes, holding him closer. One leg slid between his and, oh God. He could feel the crisp hair surrounding what was unmistakably Holmes's half-hard erection against him. Involuntarily he moved his hips against it, and gasped out loud as sparks lit up his nerve-endings. Holmes groaned softly and pushed his leg upward, eliciting another, louder, gasp and corresponding sound from Holmes when their pricks rubbed together. Watson felt another rush of arousal and his own erection, which had subsided somewhat, began to thicken once more.

Then Holmes moved away just far enough to slip one hand between them and close it around him, gently squeezing and caressing. Watson groaned again, his hands scrabbling over Holmes's back. "I want to see you, John," Holmes whispered, his breath hot against Watson's face, his hand stroking his rapidly-firming flesh. "I want to see all of you. May I?"

"God!" Watson exclaimed as the next gentle pull had him arching his back. "Of course, love; whatever you want," he gasped. A moment later the sheet was yanked down to the foot of the bed and Holmes was propped on one elbow beside him, running his eyes over him. They homed in on his erection, steadily increasing as Holmes stroked him, and Watson shivered at being the focus of that intent gaze. 

He reached down and wrapped his fingers around Holmes's prick, long, like Holmes himself, though not as lean. No, not nearly as lean. His touch was tentative at first, but the heavy weight of the already half-hard flesh growing thicker in his hand was delicious to feel. It gave him confidence and his strokes grew firmer. As did his own flesh as Holmes continued his ministrations. "Do you know how many times I dreamed of this, Sherlock? Of us touching like this?"

"As often as I did, I suspect," Holmes murmured throatily before leaning over to kiss him again, then added, "which, as I already told you, was frequently." Their breathing grew more rapid as their hands stroked and caressed and their legs tangled together and their kisses grew stronger and hungrier and it was so much better than his own hand, better than anything Watson had felt in many, many years - if ever. Acting on impulse, he tried something he himself had discovered many years ago that he enjoyed: He cupped the other man's scrotum and gave it a gentle squeeze, pleased when Holmes made a sound that was part gasp and part soft cry of " _Oh!_ Oh, John, yes!" and his hips gave an involuntary jerk. Even more pleasing was that he quickly copied Watson's actions, caressing his sac, carefully rolling the sensitive testes in his long, clever fingers. Copious amounts of pre-ejaculate eased the friction from their hands and sooner than he had expected, he felt the familiar tightening in his groin that heralded an approaching climax, and from the soft groans coming from Holmes and the hectic flush on his face and chest, his husband was also quickly nearing that end.

It flashed through Watson's mind that given his age it would be several hours before anything more would happen that night if he spent now, but just then Holmes gave a loud groan and his entire body grew taut. Watson felt the organ in his hand swell even more, and as hot spurts of ejaculate hit his stomach Holmes's hand tightened convulsively around him. That and the sight of Holmes's face in orgasm were his undoing, and he also groaned loudly as his release rushed through him and out of him like a runaway train, setting off sparks of sensation in his body stronger than he'd felt in decades. 

If ever.

They collapsed against each other, utterly spent, breaths ragged and hearts beating a mile a minute. "Dear God, John," Holmes managed to say after a moment, "is it always like that? If I'd realised . . . what I was missing . . . I would have retired . . . twenty years ago."

Watson held him closer, disregarding the sticky mess coating both their stomachs, and sought to regain his breath. "No, my dear. In my experience . . . that was quite extraordinary . . . more . . . much more . . . intense." He pressed a kiss onto the still-mostly-dark hair that was adorably rumpled out of its usual ruthlessly sleek appearance. In fact - he looked more closely - yes, by God! He could see curly waves forming as the sweat began to dry. Images of the Twenty-first Century Holmes with his mop of unruly curls flashed through his mind. Musing on that, he left unspoken his certainty that twenty years ago Holmes would have been bored to tears within a week of retiring, the novelty and pleasures of sexual gratification notwithstanding; but when Holmes pulled back a little, he looked down and saw those keen eyes regarding him, thoughtfully at first and then with a kind of sorrowful regret.

"As always, my dear John, you are correct," Holmes said with an apologetic tone. "Back then I fear not even this" - he gestured between them - "however extraordinary and fulfilling, would have sufficed to curb my restlessness for long. I hope you know how fervently I wish I could truthfully say otherwise." 

One of Holmes's hands lay curled on Watson's chest. He pulled it to his lips and kissed the long fingers. "Do not fret yourself over it, my love." He smiled ruefully. "In all honesty, I cannot claim that I too would not eventually have longed for London and our adventures there." He kissed the fingers again and then eyed the congealing liquid on their stomachs. "I believe some cleanup is warranted. Let me fetch a flannel." 

Turning over, he cast a glance around the room and grimaced. No, his dressing gown had not miraculously transported itself from its accustomed hook in the bathroom to appear handily within reach, and his discarded clothing lay scattered on the floor, also not within easy reach. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up.

"You can always wrap yourself in the sheet if you are feeling suddenly modest," came the amused voice of his husband from behind him. 

Watson rolled his eyes. He supposed it _was_ silly to feel shy after everything that had just transpired between them, but still . . . walking naked across even a fairly dark room just seemed fundamentally _different_ somehow from lying naked in bed, which had felt strange enough although the initial awkwardness had soon passed. Giving himself a mental shake, he stood up and moved towards the door.

"John."

He stopped, pursing his lips. Trust Holmes to draw this out! His husband had a mischievous streak which popped up at odd times, of which this apparently was one. Determined not to show his discomfort, he turned around to find Holmes lying on his side propped up on one elbow, still delectably naked. "Yes?"

His husband gave him a sly smile, slowly running his eyes over him. "I am quite enjoying the view." His voice was a low purr of dark honey and chocolate; pure seduction.

Despite himself, Watson blushed. Well, two could play at that game, after all. "As am I," he said, returning both the smile and the ogling. Not that that was a chore; his eyes roamed over his husband's body, stopping appreciatively on his penis, lying long and relaxed on his thigh.

Holmes only chuckled, damn him. "Hurry back." Rolling onto his back, he gave a long, luxurious stretch, reminding Watson of a cat, all loose-limbed sinuousity, and winked. "The night is still young, my dear John."

Watson hurried through his ablutions, returning with a wet flannel with which he gently cleaned Holmes. When done, he tossed the flannel onto the floor, well away from the bed, and turned toward the other man, pulling the sheet and duvet over them both - not this time for modesty's sake but because the night was rapidly turning cool. Holmes drew him closer and he cuddled into Holmes's side, resting his head on a rather bony shoulder. A sudden yawn took him by surprise, and he laughed. Holmes made an inquiring noise and he chuckled again. "The night may be young, Sherlock, but I am not. I should like to sleep now, if I may."

"Certainly, John," Holmes replied. "I will admit, I too find the thought of a short nap appealing."

"Not too short, I hope," Watson mumbled sleepily, already sinking into slumber. He felt Holmes smile as warm lips touched his forehead.

"I promise, long enough for both of us to recuperate from our . . . exertions, and to gather strength for more."

More exertions? Hmm, what might Holmes have in mind? Vague images passed through his mind, but before Watson's fuzzy brain could dwell further on them, he fell headlong into sleep.

**Next Morning, early**

Watson couldn't remember a time when he'd been more content, both physically and emotionally. The early, pre-dawn light coming in through the bedroom window highlighted the figure of Holmes lying next to him, miraculously sound asleep. Careful not to wake him, he shifted just a trifle, moving a bit closer even though they were already spooned together; he wanted every inch of their bodies touching. Thoughts of the night before drifted through his mind: 

_Waking from a refreshing nap to the feel of a warm mouth on his neck . . . his collarbone . . . kissing its way down his sternum . . . pausing a moment to lick one nipple and then the other before drawing them in turn into that hot, wet cavern, causing him to arch involuntarily as a tongue flicked over each soft tip, over and over until both were drawn into tight beads and he felt his cock stirring to life again . . . pulling Holmes upward, losing himself in their kiss, feeling the evidence of Holmes's renewed arousal against his leg . . ._

_. . . the moist slide of lips kissing their way down his torso . . . hot breath on his abdomen . . . "Sherlock, what - " . . . Holmes lifting his head . . . "Have you ever heard the term 'fellatio,' John?" . . . and yes, he has, but is Holmes really intending to . . . "May I, John?" . . . his cock jumping at the touch of a kiss *there* . . . "Oh, God, yes!" bursting from his lips . . . heat and wetness engulfing him and lips and tongue moving over his prick . . . hardening to full tumescence so quickly that for several moments he felt quite dizzy as his blood fled southward . . . vaguely aware of groans and gasps escaping his throat, feeling the bobbing movement of Holmes's head under his hands, fingers entwined in his hair . . . trying to gasp out a warning, "Sherlock . . . Sherlock, I'm going to - " . . . "Oh, God! Sherlooooock!" . . ._

_. . . convulsing, his body spasming, ecstasy filling his veins and surging out of him into . . . dear God, into the mouth that swallowed his release as if it were an everyday occurrence . . . Holmes finally pulling away and rising to his knees, frantically pumping his rock-hard prick, groaning his own release before Watson could pull himself together enough to lend even a hand, much less his mouth . . ._

_. . . another collapse into each other's arms and several minutes of catching their breath . . . pulling Holmes into an intense kiss, ignoring the decidedly strange taste of his own essence . . . "Dear God, Sherlock, that was - I've never - how did you know to do that?" . . . "Don't babble, John. I did some research, as I believe I mentioned before" . . . laughter bubbling up in his throat . . . "Then thank God for research!" . . . long, contented silence before Holmes mumbled, "I'll get the flannel this time" . . . "I have a better idea, love" . . . bathing together, exchanging loving kisses and soapy caresses until exhaustion and cold water forced them out of the tub and back into bed, where they sank once more into slumber._

Remembering all this, Watson pressed a kiss onto the shoulder in front of him, at the same time tightening his hold on Holmes, giving a little squeeze before relaxing his arm and settling into sleep. He felt Holmes lift his hand and bestow a kiss on it, but never saw the smug little smile that crossed Holmes's lips before he too allowed himself to drift off again.

_Fin_


End file.
